


What It Takes to Be a Parent

by Chordae



Series: Din Djarin’s Guide To Fatherhood and All the Existential Crises Inbetween [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Domestic Fluff, Impromptu Parenting, Mandalorian, but with a single-dad bounty hunter twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chordae/pseuds/Chordae
Summary: Five times the Mandalorian learned to do something for his kid, plus one time his kid learned to do something for him.
Series: Din Djarin’s Guide To Fatherhood and All the Existential Crises Inbetween [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586989
Comments: 74
Kudos: 429





	1. Cooking, or Lack Thereof

**Author's Note:**

> this is a 5+1 so yeeHaw  
> it takes place before everything in my series thus far, so I’m gonna shift it to be the first in the series  
> this fic is solely focused on Din getting acclimated to calling a kid his own and the realization that he is responsible for another life (plus my shit humor!)

**1.**

Din likes to believe that, were the circumstances different, he would have found out that small children _can’t_ live off of ration bars _a little bit sooner._

(Actually, now that Din thinks about it, he probably shouldn’t be relying on ration bars for his _own_ nutrients.)

The long-coming realization strikes him a brief moment after he passes the kid a ration bar, in which he eagerly accepts. He easily abandons his drawing on the ground in favor of the food, as unappetizing as it may be. His empty gums and sparse amount of baby teeth gnawing and slobbering strikes a chord with Din, who suddenly realizes that _oh, maybe that’s not the healthiest thing?_

Din, a bit clueless as to what else he should feed the kid, silently stares as he slobbers a bit more and then inhales the bar.

Then another question rears it’s big, ugly head, not-so-kindly reminding Din that he has absolutely no idea what the kid needs to (or _can_ ) eat.

Din thinks on it a moment, cross-legged and squinting as he studies the kid. He props his chin on one gloved hand whilst the other taps out an arbitrary rhythm, desperately grasping at any comprehensible thoughts that manage to filter through the bewilderment.

 _He’s eaten meat before, right?_ Din thinks to himself, ruminating over the thought and tearing it as if it were a fine meal of its own. He’s caught the kid eating insects and small animals of all sorts, always appearing as if he’s mere seconds short of unhinging his jaw and eating the nearest humanoid.   
  
(For all Din knows, he could do _exactly_ that at any given moment, lest he go unfed.)

 _Meat will work_ , he supposes.

The kid looks up from his resumed drawing, ears titled curiously as he stares at his father ( _shit_ , _he’s a **dad** now-_ that’s gonna take some getting used to) with his brown eyes glimmering with a subtle playfulness. 

The kid scoots a bit closer, clasping his free hand to the sole of Din’s boot whilst he draws. Din peeks over, momentarily shaken from his reverie, and subtly catches a glance of the drawing- it’s nothing impressive, definitely not the skill of a fifty year old, but it’s— _adorable_ , nonetheless. 

A scribbled drawing of himself and the kid makes Din’s heart ache, and when the kid starts cooing up at him as if to calm him, he decides that’s the final straw.

Din hurries to stand up, awkwardly patting the kid’s head in a (hopefully) comforting way. He lets his feet carry him, trying to internally catalogue what food they have aboard the ship.

He’s standing in the middle of the corridor when he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing or where he’s going.

The Razor Crest is a gunship- it doesn’t come equipped with a ‘kitchen’, that’s for sure. Luckily, Din’s pretty sure there’s a hot plate and a few pots and pans in storage.

(There _is_ a hot plate and some pots and pans in storage- it just takes Din nearly a standard hour to find them.)

Din manages to find a clutter-free table, dumping his armful of cooking supplies onto it. He grabs the rucksack of food he previously deemed ‘cookable’- dried meats, hard fruits, and a few bruised leek-looking vegetables. He also has a bottle of water on hand, so perhaps an impromptu stew would work?

Din has no idea what he’s doing. He can’t even recall the last time (or maybe it was the first time?) he cooked.

It stares at the array of cooking utensils and food he has scattered about the table, as if expecting it to whip itself into something edible. He blinks once, twice, then decides to get to it.

Determined and fueled by the power of ‘let’s-feed-the-kid-real-food’, he resolutely decides to bullshit his way through the cooking process.

He flicks the hot plate on, deciding to set it on ‘high’, sits a sizable pot atop of it, and pours the entire container of water into it.

(It has to _boil_ , right? That’s- That’s an actual thing, _right_?)

He pulls a dark purple fruit over to him, the skin of it rough and not suited for baby-teeth. It’s about the size of his fist, and he stares at it for a few dragged-out seconds. With a decisive nod, he summons a dagger seemingly out of thin, recycled air, then starts peeling it.

Once he’s done skinning it, he checks his work- there’s a significant amount of the fruit gone, and there’s also a sizeable gash on his leather glove- but, hey, he peeled it.

(Even if somewhat successfully.)

He casts a solemn look to his destroyed gloves then peels them off, deciding them useless and probably unsanitary.

He gets to cutting the fruit, and– how. How is he supposed to do this? How is _anyone_ expected to do this? Yeah, sure, put a person in front of him and he can easily incapacitate them (or kill them, if need be) with the same dagger in a matter of seconds, but a piece of _food_?

He’s being bested by a fruit, and it’s sincerely ticking him off.

Once he gets into the rhythm of cutting the fruit into small, uneven pieces, his grip on the dagger slips and he cuts his palm.

“Haar'chak!” He hisses out, a second away from pounding the cut fruit to its death, then pales as he realizes the kid’s nearby. He slowly turns around, hand dripping with blood and shoulders tense in dreaded anticipation. He heaves a sigh of relief at the sight of the kid happily minding his own business, splayed out on the floor as he scribbles away on his paper.

Din then notices that he feels a bit lightheaded, then proceeds to perform first-aid on his gaping hand wound.

Minutes later, hands cleaned and one wrapped in a thick layer of bandages, Din settles back in front of the ‘cooking’ table.

Din takes a stupefied moment to realize that the pot is boiling over, and scrambles in his panic to turn the heat down.

After a few seconds too many, the pot finally bubbles without bubbling _over_ , and Din verbalizes his relief.

He dumps the bits of the fruit that isn’t blood-soaked into the pot, then pulls over bits of dried meat. Deciding against picking up the dagger again, he rips the jerky into the smallest pieces he can manage.

Once finished with that task, he throws the bits of meat into the pot. He eyes the leek-like vegetable, then decides that maybe he can rip that into manageable pieces as well. 

(He absolutely fails in ripping the vegetable, but he gives up and chucks it into the pot anyways.)

He had found a gnawed-on wooden spoon earlier, no doubt due to the kid, then gets to stirring.

The water is too clear once he deems the meal ‘done’. It’s slightly brown looking but nothing like the broth he buys at cantinas.

(Wait- is water not broth? That would… that would explain a _lot_ , now that Din thinks about it.)

He dips the tip of a finger into it, recoiling back once he burns his finger, because what did he expect? _Not_ to get burnt?

With a cautious glance backwards, he checks on the kid, back turned to Din and happily humming to himself.  
Din slips his helmet off, sitting it as quietly as he can onto an open spot on the table.

He scoops out a bit of meat and fruit, as well as a too-big piece of leek-thing, and tests them all.

The fruit, he realizes, actually tastes good. It’s not too hard or too soft, and it melts on his tongue, the flavor surprisingly delicious, a savory yet tangy taste.

Din’s expectations, from the fruit alone, skyrocket.

The meat is soggy and congealed for some reason, a weird slime sticking to its crinkled exterior. 

His expectations are now significantly lower.

The leek is too firm, barely allowing for Din to bite through it.

(He might’ve almost choked on it.)

Quickly putting his helmet back on and deeming the stew good enough (or, in this case, _barely edible_ ), he grabs a thermos off the table and scoops a serving for the kid into it.

He timidly (as ‘timid’ as a bumbling, introverted, bounty hunter can be) tiptoes up to the kid, awkwardly standing there for a bit too long, not gaining the kid’s attention. He clears his throat, and the kid practically jolts up from his spot to greet him, his drawing forgotten.

He warbles up at Din, small mouth curling into a smile as he excitedly waves his arms around, trying to recount the past few hours in his nonsense baby-talk.

Din stares at him for a moment, inclines his head, and hands the kid the thermos.

The kid blinks at him and then at the thermos now in his grasp. Another blink, a pregnant pause, and then he immediately goes to dump out the stew.

Din hurriedly confiscates it from him.

“...Please, don’t do that.” He all but begs, then presses the rim of the thermos to the kid’s mouth. 

The kid, seemingly getting the idea, takes the thermos back into his hands and takes a sip. His eyes go wide, then he begins to greedily slurp the rest of the stew, somehow devouring the entirety of it in a matter of seconds.

Din stares, bewildered, then nods. He takes the thermos back, and goes to get the kid a second serving.

Cooking isn’t _that_ bad, he decides. Cuts, burns, and all, he’s content. The kid liked it, so it shouldn’t be that bad.

(Hours later, once the kid has had his fill, Din sneaks a serving of his own. He then decides that, _yes_ , it is that bad.)


	2. Scrub-a-Dub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, bathing children is _hard_.  
> (Especially to someone who has gone his entire life without even caring for a child.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as the eldest of four siblings, I’m trying to use my personal experiences in order to flesh out din’s own. The whole ‘what am I doing this isn’t my child? Help me what it needs to be bathed?’ is something I understand and try to depict in order to flesh out his struggling-parent thing he’s got goin on.  
> anyways hell yeah here’s the second chapter

**2.**

Din’s exhausted. 

It’s the type of exhaustion that comes with a long day of wiping out an entire bandit camp single-handedly for a few credits and an overnight stay in an inn, the same type of exhaustion that seeps into his bones and makes them creak and his body lurch when he deems it necessary to move. 

His muscles ache, arms tired from lugging a child around with him the entire time, legs shaking from remarkable, mountainous, distances covered by foot, and said feet sore from the mud-covered trek.

The kid nods off against his chest, just as tired as Din at this point, grumbling baby nonsense to himself. Tiny claws open and close against Din’s chest plate, as if the kid’s trying to gain a grip of any sort in his not-quite-sleep state.

Thunder cracks in the distance, a bright flash of lightning shocking the kid out of his tired reverie, a nervous giggle falling off his lips and hands flailing for a moment. With the kid’s own exhaustion long since forgotten, Din makes no moves to calm the slight jostle as he all but sprints to shelter.

A heavy sigh wracks his body, something he’s noticed himself doing more of nowadays. He has half a mind to blame the kid, but he’s the adult in this situation, and he’s not going to get any better at his miserable excuse of parenting if he starts shifting the blame to a _child._

Rain patters down onto the world below, soaking Din to the bone and causing an unwelcome shiver to tremor through his body. It’s unbearably cold. Dark clouds betray the actual time, mid-afternoonish, making the world a dilapidated, sorrowful gray.

The kid lets out the faintest of sneezes and Din tries to pick up his already-breakneck speed. The mud loudly squelches in his boots as he runs.

He supposes they make an odd pair; A Mandalorian clad in sleek Beskar armor (though currently he’s covered head to toe in blood and mud), and a kid, green and squealing and _sneezing_ , also covered in mud (but not a spot of blood) as he makes grabby-hands towards his father despite being held tight in his grip. The two of them running through the rain. A sight to behold but also something to steer clear of and to go as far as to _run from_.

Din understands but doesn’t appreciate the looks they get when he shoulders his way into the inn, pushing past people trying to escape the storm, locals and travelers alike. The chatter of the main lobby, fashioned as a cantina, dims significantly, replaced with low, wary murmurs and almost incredulous looks. The fluorescent lights and unwanted attention feed Din’s festering headache. 

(What he wouldn’t give for a _nap.)_

Those who pay attention to his arrival track him with hungry or terrified eyes as he makes his way to the counter, pulling the gauze-wrapped finger of the bandit leader out of his pocket. 

Din, without a smidgen of fanfare, hands the finger over to the awaiting owner.

She stares at him, not quite amused but something eerily similar in her tell-tale silence. She accepts the finger with a nod. She doesn’t make a move to check if it truly is the proof of bounty, but instead eyes the drying blood and mud concoction that splatters Din’s suit.

“So you take care of bandit?” She drawls in her native accent, antennae twitching in bemusement. She turns and tugs a keychain off the board behind her, and swoops to grab a sack of credits. “I am taking back my original offer. Stay as long as you please, Mando.” She hands both things over with a smile, her thanks not verbalized but shown nonetheless. 

“It is on the top floor, end of hallway to the right. Plenty of privacy for you and child. I will send a server up with dinner in a few minutes.”

Din nods, not one for words in the company of others, his own thanks depicted with the slight bow of his head as he accepts the keychain and coin purse from her. 

Din practically drags himself up the stairs, legs heavy and mind heavier as he lugs himself and the kid to the _top floor_. He winces with each step, his headache working in synch with the rest of his body to strike him down.

They somehow manage to make it to the top floor. Din stumbles down the hallway, noting the distinct lack of people, and looks the part of a bumbling drunkard after a few rounds too many.

(He’s only a single father trying his best, but _shit he’d forgotten alcohol was a thing._ )

He stops before their room, one arm wrapped around the child and the other struggling to unlock the door. It enters the lock after a few tense moments of struggling. With a final click, the door easily opens.

He lets the kid down as he shuts the door behind them, allowing him to acclimatize to where they’ll be staying for an indefinite amount of time.

Din peels off his dripping armor and muddy boots, stopping just short of peeling off his soaked clothing. He peeks around the bathroom door and spots a bathrobe, much to his enjoyment.

He nearly goes to finish his undressing the moment there’s a knock on the door. With a hand waiting on the handle of his blaster, he nudges the door open. He peeps through the crack.

Din is greeted to the sight of a stuttering server that presents a tray of food and drink to him. Din opens the door the rest of the way and graciously accepts it, going as far as to mumble his thanks.

Re-entering the room, Din catches sight of the kid trying to scale the sheets of the bed, muddy hands grasping the bed skirt.

“...Stay off the furniture.” Din calls out after a moment of deliberate thought. “Also, come eat.”

At the slightest mention of food or eating of any sorts, the kid immediately abandons his goal of climbing the _giant_ (at least to him) bed and scurries over to his parent.

Din easily divvies out the food amongst the two of them, an aromatic soup and a cup of some sort of milk going to the kid and a grain-and-meat meal with a cup of tea for himself. The kid grabs and carries off his spoils (not before coercing Din to carry his soup for him, for his arms were full with just the glass of milk alone) to sit himself on the ground in the middle of the room, loudly slurping at both his drink and his soup.

Din turns away from him, an unspoken agreement that the kid wouldn’t look his way when he was without his helmet.

He makes haste in eating his own meal, wanting out of his soaked clothing and getting the kid a bath of his own.

After eating he goes around to gather the kid’s own dishware and gently places them back upon their tray.

Dishes forgotten on the counter and kid nodding off on the ground, Din allows himself a moment to think.

He’s tired, yes, but not too tired as to not take a bath or shower. The kid looks just about as bad as him, trembling and mud-splattered as he begins to fall asleep on the lush carpet.

With a decisive nod, Din walks over and scoops the kid into his arms, ignoring his squabbling as he carries him to the bathroom and deposits him into the tub.

The kid curiously blinks at Din, then sits himself down onto the stone tiles.

Din gingerly begins to remove the kid’s robes and the rest of his clothing. Averting his eyes, because although they’re _technically_ family it still doesn’t mean he wants to look at him, he turns the water on. He sets the plug into the drain as he goes about searching for soap. 

Din peels his gloves off and tests the heat of the torrent of water, warm but not scalding, as it fills the tub.

He finally spots the soap, an inn-issued bottle of shampoo and a prepackaged bar of body soap. The kid doesn’t really _have_ a full head of hair, Din notices, just tiny little hairs (or furs?) that spot his green skin.

Din, unsure how the baby would react to the soap, tests them both on his own hand- the body wash is a coarse, strong scented bar, whilst the shampoo foams and holds the faintest scent of an amalgamation of flowers.

He hesitantly decides to only use the shampoo on the kid, opting out on the bar due to its rough exfoliating that works best for an oily adult.

Din lathers the shampoo on his hands and goes about cleaning the child, trying to make the bath quick but also being gentle.

He assumes bathing another is much like bathing oneself, and bathing a child would be like bathing another but smaller which is like bathing oneself but smaller.

(Din Djarin will gladly admit that he has no idea what he’s doing.)

After a few minutes of the kid being blessedly quiet as he slowly falls asleep mid-bath, Din finally deems the child clean, helping him up to rinse him with the shower head.

It easily wakes him up, clean but sputtering as the soap is washed away from him. Din drains the tub and grabs a nearby towel (more of a hand towel, considering the kid’s size). He dried the kid and swaddles him in a new, dry towel. He grabs a third, bigger towel, and wraps that one around the kid as well.

The kid, clean, warm, and already nodding off again, is gently laid down on the mattress. Din watches him silently as he falls asleep in a matter of seconds.

Din then proceeds to bathe himself, reveling in the way the hot water soothes his sore body and chilled bones. 

Afterwards, he takes note of his (foggy) reflection in the mirror, none too pleased.

His hair is plastered against his forehead, still damp and dripping with water. His eyes are rimmed with dark crescents, and even he can spot the edge of bone-weary exhaustion in his posture. He’s wrapped in the inn’s bathrobe, his helmet and the rest of his get-up in a soggy pile next to the door. With a second glance towards his helmet, he decides not to wear it.

Din pads out into the main room. He closes the door behind him quietly, as not to awaken the child. He turns off all lights as he goes, then collapses into the bed, reaching for a pillow to cover his face with.

Just like the child before him, he’s asleep in a matter of seconds.

(The next morning, if anyone has anything to say to the bathrobe-and-helmet garbed Mandalorian doing his and his kid’s laundry, then they say nothing.)

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did just write 1k+ words about _bathtime_  
>  I was typing out one of Din’s dialogues (Din’s only dialogue what the shit) and before I could type a word my phone deadass recommended I type ‘Ad’ika’ hmmmmmm a little too early bud.  
> also my phone keeps trying to autocorrect Din to ‘Don’, so if you ever read about Don Djarin, that’s my fault  
> ____  
> Edit:  
> The next chapter will come out around Monday-Tuesday, because I’m struggling with it a bit more than the first two. Thank you so much for the comments and everyone who’s stuck around for the first two chapters!  
> (P.s. the next chapter is literally the fluffiest AND saddest shit I’ve ever written, so take that with a grain of salt.)


	3. A Cry for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, learning to ask for help can be difficult, but it means all the world when you do it for a kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo WHAT? I actually post when I said I would? What is wrong with me why am I following a schedule  
> lol sorry the idea sounded cool in my head but whoops this kind of sucks

**3.**

The sun bears down onto the swamped marketplace, bright and unwavering against the skin (scales, fur, and feathers) of bustling people. Rolling mountains of sand and dead brush surround the desert valley village, and there’s barely a breeze permeating the stuffy, humid air.

The dry ground beneath Din cracks with every burdened step, the weight of himself, his armor, and the kid not slight in the least. Shoppers and shopkeepers alike range from species of humanoids to not-quite humanoids. People flurry about and kick up dust as they go, lugging sacks and boxes of a wide array of goods.

The beaming sun makes Din’s armor obnoxiously bright, if the pained grimaces and squints he receives when someone looks at him is anything to go by.

He can already feel the steady trail of sweat running down his neck, a frown making its way to his face as he adjusts his helmet and armor to get the best breeze possible. It’s hot but not unbearably so, luckily enough.

Din walks through the marketplace with the kid resting on his hip, his wide eyes taking in the predominantly desert planet as he keeps a tight grip on his father’s arm.

The kid squeals and giggles at the passing shoppers, tiny claws reaching out to to try to brush against an antenna or poke at a multitude of eyes. Din manages to keep tight rein over the kid, making sure he doesn’t _actually_ harass any fellow shoppers.

Whilst simultaneously pulling the kid away from poking people, Din has to keep a mental list of everything they need, repeating it to himself every few seconds in case he forgets.

“Food, soap, toys, clothes.” He murmurs to himself as a mantra, eyes keen and trailing over the plethora of stands, then easily pulls back the kid’s grabby hand with his free arm. 

He drags in a deep breath, the air humid and almost thick enough to choke him (especially from behind his helmet).

He easily spots a nearby stand advertising fresh fruits and vegetables. He turns his attention towards it and aims him and the kid in its direction, his hand that isn’t cradling the kid against him grabbing a handful of credits out of his pocket.

Din silently picks out fruits and vegetables that don’t look _too hard_ to cook, and silently nods to the shopkeeper as he hands over his credits and bags up the produce.

With a bag of food thrown over his shoulder and child happily burbling from his waist, Din carries on.

They peruse the market before they manage to stumble upon a stand of children’s clothing and toys. The kid warbles something to the shopkeep, as if trying to hold up a conversation with baby-speak alone. His hands cut through the air, gesticulating as he vainly tries to explain something or other in a dramatic fashion.

Din simply allows the child his own space, silently keeping to himself as he picks out clothing and toys for the child.

As the kid’s conversation drags on, the shopkeep replying in fervor even if not understanding, Din slowly begins to accumulate a large amount of toys and clothing.

He mumbles to himself as he tries to size up the kid- the outfit wouldn’t clash with his skin-tone, thank the _stars_ , but then again practically every outfit that isn’t some diluted version of a color would look atrocious on the kid.

(Din has never thought there’d come a day where he’d be stressing over baby clothes, but alas.)

Din holds up the same, warm grey outfit, just two different sizes as he tries to subtly fit it against the child.

“I’d say he’s that size.” The shopkeep speaks up, making Din (who was too far gone in his thoughts to have noticed him) jolt and lurch for his blaster. 

Din, upon noticing that they were _not_ under attack, draws his hand from the handle of his blaster, looking about as ruffled as a man in a full suit of armor can.

The shopkeep looks like it takes everything within him _not_ to laugh at Din (and everyone’s doing a lot of that lately, aren’t they?). With a taloned finger, he graciously points out the outfit clasped in Din’s right hand. “That one, it should fit.” He clarifies. “If it doesn’t, you can always bring it back and swap it for something his size.” 

Din, absolutely _floored_ by this information, simply nods in a way that betrays his astonishment. He looks the outfit over and decides that it probably is the right size, checks the tag, then purchases it, a few more outfits in the same size, and a handful of toys for the kid.

The shopkeeper hands over the rucksack of bagged goods, then looks Din over and grimaces. Din, unsure how to respond to that, reaches for his blaster once more. For all he knows, the guy could be working with some Imperial Remnant trying to get (or kill!) the kid.

The shopkeep ducks back behind his stand, and for a split second Din believes it to be a tactical retreat. He’s one harried moment away from sending a blaster round through the wall of the stand, but then the shopkeep comes tumbling back out with a sheet of rumpled fabric in hand.

“I- well, this should help.” He says, handing it over to Din, who accepts it with obvious bewilderment. “I hope. You can take it for free, we got a surplus shipment of them in last night and barely anyone has bought any-“ He rambles on, his flute-like voice dimming and subtly whistling as an accomapaniment to Din’s thoughts. 

Din unfolds the fabric, assuming it to be a blanket of sorts. He’s fairly surprised when the dark brown fabric turns out to be a swaddle, fit with an elastic band and metal clasps.

Din, speechless to what seems to be an act of kindness directed _towards him_ , stifles his confusion and grumbles his thanks to the shopkeep, voice tinny with the metallic edge of his audio receptors.

“Anytime.” The shopkeep smiles as Din gathers his composure and his bags.

As the father-son duo continue their trek through the marketplace, Din fumbles with the swaddle for an unnecessary amount of time, cursing lightly as he accidentally drops a bag.

The bags are looped around his arm, the same arm that keeps the kid on his waist. The same burdened hand and his free hand try to maneuver the swaddle into a working position.

At one point, he’s totally zoned out and determined to get the swaddle to work no matter what. He’s standing still in the middle of the constantly moving marketplace, people bumping into him as he curses and grumbles to himself.

“Excuse me,” A voice calls out, barely dragging him from his trance. “Do you need any help?”

He looks up, a heavy ‘No’ waiting on his tongue, but the kid slaps his helmet as if reading his mind. Instead, Din grunts in lieu of a response.

Din looks up, shifting the kid a bit higher on his waist as he does, and spots the woman, a human, with a child clasping her hand and trailing along behind her.

“Oh, you poor dear.” She says, voice laced in genuine sympathy. Din’s unsure as to whether that’s directed at him or the kid, but either way he feels assaulted. “Here, let me help you.” She walks over, helping Din sit down his kid and the bags in order to assist.

The kid stands behind Din, his own claws barely tugging at the hem of his cloak, a familiar but not unwelcome anchor to the planet.

The woman continues to talk as she helps him, making quick work of the swaddle. Din can’t help spacing out for a bit, for the heat has certainly gotten to him.

“-you okay?” Filters through his daze, and he subtly shakes his head. Something feels lighter, and there’s the subtle feeling of Din having forgotten something. “Hey, did you hear me? Are you okay?”

Din manages a ‘yeah’, his voice a hoarse rasp.

The woman gives Din a look that easily depicts that she doesn’t quite believe him, but turns away anyways, gathering her own child into her arms.

“That should hold up for a while.” She concludes with a nod, surveying her work. She pauses, body going stock-still as her gaze passes over his feet. Her eyes widen in not-so-subtle terror, which quickly turns to frenzied panic. “Your- uhm, your child is missing.”

_Oh._

Din makes a noise suspiciously like a gurgled choke, and spins on his heel to look for his kid.

“I- I’m so sorry, do you need help…?” She reaches out, but then Din frantically shakes his head as response. He looks around desperately, eyes wide from beneath his helmet and breathing suddenly rugged.

Somehow, the woman catches onto whatever Din is struggling to get across, and she backs away, albeit slowly.

She says something about keeping her eye out, the specifics lost to Din’s momentary dread and confusion.

His kid’s _missing_ and he will find him.

He can and he _will_ find the kid on his own- he has tracked people from across the _galaxy_ before, a kid in some marketplace shouldn’t be that difficult.

Standing in an unknown market, barely knowing left from right through the heat and lack of known landmarks, Din figures it will take a little bit.

He searches for an indefinite amount of time, wanting nothing more than to find his kid. 

Something weighs down on him as he notices the setting sun in the distance, figuring he’s been at this for hours. He’s lightheaded from the heat and his clothing is drenched in sweat. His breaths come out pained and short, his throat dry and his mouth drier from hours on end of walking in a _desert_ in a full suit of armor.

 _He doesn’t_ ** _need_** _to ask for help,_ he rationalizes. It shouldn’t be that _fucking hard_ to find a kid on his own. He’s far from incompetent- hell, you’ve gotta be pretty _fucking_ **_competent_** in his line of work- and he should be able to find the kid on his own, as if the help of some civilian (who, for all he knows, could be his next kill-on-sight bounty) will boost his chances of finding his kid.

He’s barely managed to realize that he’s panicking- his already belaboured breaths coming out quicker and shorter, his hands shaking subtly as he clenches them into fists, his head swimming as he tries to tell up from down, the world feeling as if it’s closing in on him- but that doesn’t make sense, why would he be _panicking?_ He’s been in this situation plenty of times before, without a fob in hand and slithering through crowds to find a bounty.

 _It’s just that,_ he realizes. _The kid isn’t a bounty anymore._ Even though he’d been told that long ago, been told the child was _his_ , he’s never actively thought of it as his own kid. 

That doesn’t explain why he’s panicking. _Why is he panicking?_

(He reckons he’s a sight to see, a Mandalorian panicking in the middle of a marketplace with an empty swaddle slung around his neck and bags hanging from his arms.)

Maybe it’s the thought that the kid’s been stolen, maimed, or _worse_ , **killed** . The panic bubbles in his chest at just the mere thought, and although he doesn’t fully understand he understands _enough_ _._ It’s- it’s not some _bounty,_ it’s his _kid_ , and he has every right to be panicking.

-And, damn it all, he’s going to find _his_ _kid._

Although, he’s not going to find the kid without any help, and he’ll be damned if he actually asks.

“Excuse me, do you need help?” Some kind stranger calls out, voice familiar as a hand clasps his shoulder from behind.

“Yes.” He sighs out, his voice grating on his ears. “Yeah, I need help.” Just admitting it feels as if a weight has been lifted from his chest, but at the same time he feels eerily uncomfortable.

He turns around with his head hung, ruminating on what it means to _ask for help_. 

It’s the same shopkeeper from the before, the vaguely avian alien with his flutey voice and donated baby swaddles. 

_Load of good that did_ , something in Din seethes, but he easily squashes it down.

With large, blue eyes, the man blinks around, feathers co-mingling with a rugged mane of closely trimmed hair. 

“Thought so.” He grins, all teeth but without a biting edge to it. There’s a certain… sincerity to it Din doesn’t usually catch directed towards himself.

Apparently, Din doesn’t even have to explain just what it is he’s looking for, the alien catching sight of the swaddle and the distinct lack of a kid.

With a pained, almost pitying look shot in Din’s direction, the man shakes his head and ruffles his feathers.

He straightens himself out and gestures to their general area with a taloned hand.

“Good place as any to start.” He flutes. “We can divide and conquer or cover separate areas. I’ve got plenty of time since I just closed up shop.”

Din simply nods along and quietly follows him, at a loss as what to do rather than _look_. 

The shopkeeper leads them along, squinting as he faces toward the sun. His feet kick up sand as he walks and talks, wildly gesticulating but eyes keen as he scans the marketplace.

The number of shoppers slowly dwindles as time goes on, and the once flurried pace of the remaining shoppers shifts into a leisurely stroll, and they _still can’t find the damn kid._

The two moons are visible in the gradually darkening sky, the sunset a splash of bright colors before the inevitable plunge into darkness.

Din’s panic dwindles into an aching dread and the swell of fear in his stomach.

“Excuse me!” Yet another familiar voice calls out.

Din keeps searching, naturally assuming the voice to not be calling to him.

The voice nears them, the calling gradually growing louder. Din simply ignores it and keeps searching.

A familiar burble cries out from behind him and he can feel his heart stop.

Din spins around, heart clenching in his chest and breath catching when he catches sight of his kid cradled in the arms of the mother from before.

He doesn't know how or when, but suddenly he’s kneeling in the sand, arms wide open and a smile splitting his face from beneath his helmet.

The kid wiggles in her arms at the sight of him, and then she graciously lets him down.

Once his feet hit the ground, he squeals and toddles towards Din, teary-eyed but still smiling wide. He moves at such a pace that he seems he’s going to trip on his robes, but instead he lands into Din’s open arms.

Din stifles a laugh when he had happily accepts the baby-bear hug, but he can also feel the sting of unshed tears in his eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s getting emotional- he’s had the kid for not even a standard _year_ , but he can feel the hot sting of tears and a slightly watering nose. He manages to keep his tears from falling, and sniffles a bit.

(He’s a Mandalorian reunited with his foundling, not some- some wide-eyed, bawling _parent_.)

(Except, well, he is.)

He scoops the kid up, his tiny tears smeared against the front of Din’s chest plate but _Din doesn’t care_ , and stands.

He turns to the two people, the astoundingly kind shopkeeper and the just as friendly mother, both watching them with expressions that make them seem as if they’re a moment away from cooing at Din and his kid.

Din schools his expression, although not visible from behind his helmet, and opens his mouth to speak.

“Thank you.” He chokes out, grimacing from how pathetic he sounds, but happy that he’s got his kid back.

(Later, once they’re aboard the Razor Crest and he’s watching the kid sleep, Din thinks that _maybe_ it wouldn’t hurt to ask for help every once and awhile.)

(He may not be able to admit that he needs help, but that doesn’t mean he _doesn’t_ need it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah okay so-
> 
> When I first heard of the Mandalorian series I was all like ‘oh fuck yeah we get a Mando whoopin’ ass and takin’ names’. I was expecting some bomb-ass action and epic killing, and got exactly that but more.
> 
> My expectations were subverted and now I’m writing fanfic about a Mandalorian raising a baby how did I get here?
> 
> I’ve just assumed that Din isn’t the best with people- I mean, he sort of bounty hunts them for a living, so there’s gotta be some sort of detachment- and there’s a rare moment where he’ll actually reach out and make friends of his own.  
> also lol this is loNger than usual


	4. Pocketful of Coins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, money management was something he should’ve learned years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this isn’t all that great. I don’t know why I decided to write a chapter about budgeting when I don’t even know how to budget.

**4.**  
  
Din’s pretty sure they’ve just gone broke.

He stares down at the handful of credits, quite sure that he’d just gotten a hefty sum from his most recent bounty.

The few that there are sit, desolate, atop of his open palm. His gloves work as an orange backdrop for a bizarrely forlorn scene.

(He truly can’t remember the last time he was down to this little money.)

There’s barely enough for fuel, much less any repairs he needs to make to the hull from their latest earth-bound escapades.

Whilst pondering on where _exactly_ the money has gone, his kid toddles into the cockpit, fresh from his nap.

Socked, tiny feet shuffle against the metal floor, eyes blearily staring at his surroundings and barely taking anything in. His ears move in a way akin to an animal, reacting to any and all noise rather than particular sounds. Dried slobber sticks to his mouth and trails down his chin, a smattering of it crusted over on the collar of his shirt.

He tiredly rubs at his eyes with one hand and keeps a chokehold on his stuffed animal(?) with the other. He’s garbed in the smallest, softest pajamas Din could afford, definitely looking precious, soup stains and all. He smells faintly of a concoction of unplaceable flowers, credited to the soap Din had bought for him.

(‘Pricey but worth it’, was how the soap had been marketed. Din agreed then and still agrees now, the kid an entirely different person once he’s had a proper bath.)

 _That’s probably where all the money went,_ Din thinks, a bit dejected and disappointed in himself but not unhappy with his decision.

Though, he’s still not sure what he’s going to do about that hole in the ceiling, nor the leaking fuel tank from the recent, planet-bound scuffle.

Din’s always been fairly good with his money, never splurging save for the rare weapon that caught his eye. He’s never had a reason to spend money other than the necessities for himself. 

Now, though, he’s _cooking_ (when did _that_ happen?) three-round meals on a daily basis, bathing the kid once a day, and buying all sorts of miscellaneous child items more than necessary.

(Given how _costly_ ‘organic’ produce is, Din may as well be feeding the kid whole credits.)

He eyes the mess of toys and paper around the ship and diligently checks the seats in the cockpit. Soup stains are bountiful across the patchwork leather (though, scorch marks are also something in surplus, so Din can’t really shift the blame to either of them).

He pockets the credits, then tries to configure just exactly what they’re going to do about their money situation.

His first reaction is to take on more bounties, but, as of now, he’s doing the most he can whilst also taking care of a child.

He doesn’t- he doesn’t need to _actually_ plan his spending, does he?

(Remembering the almost _sad_ amount of money they have on hand, he does.)

He herds the kid into the cockpit, flipping prices over in his head, and- has fuel _always_ been that _expensive_? They’ve barely got enough to feed themselves for the next few days, let alone to purchase enough food to feed them for the indefinite amount of time they'll spend in space.

He spots an abandoned waxed pigment stick on the floor, a nauseously toxic green, and a lightly scribbled on paper. A few colorful streaks line the margins, but besides that it seems to be in perfect condition for budgeting.

Din gathers the objects the sits himself down at the table, the kid scrambling to take a seat next to him, his own paper and pigment clutched in hand, his stuffed toy forgotten across the way.

He presses the tip of the wax against the paper, then pauses. He hasn’t even _written_ anything and he’s already approaching difficulties.

He assumes he’d start with his pay. 

-But that’s the thing.

Bounty hunters aren’t exactly known got the ability to scrape in a consistent pay. Bounties range from high pay to embarrassingly low, and no job is ever the same (no matter how similar some people’s problems seem to be).

Not only is he unable to think of a rational number to put in place or his ‘paycheck’, he also doubts he’ll be able to work out the math.

Oh, don’t get him wrong, he’s actually quite good at math both on and off the fly. A single blaster round to the torso and then they’re incapacitated, a second shot to the head if wanted dead- that sort of math Din can do with ease. He can configure prices off the top of his head, multiplication and division has never been difficult.

He’s never been the best at equations, though.

Basic math is a necessary of bounty hunting, to know whether you’re getting screwed over with prices or pay. People tend to take advantage of a hunter who can’t do math.

(The only person currently ‘taking advantage’ of Din, even if unknowingly, is the kid sitting next to him, smiling and scribbling with delight as he coos something up at him.)

Din stares helplessly at the paper, then decides that maybe it’d be best if he just play it out as fractions.

A fourth of the pay can go to fuel- but, well, if he’s not making enough money, he’ll need to kick that fraction up, and that’s probably not something he should do when _budgeting._

He writes something down, then quickly crosses it out. He assumes an hour passes of him fuming of finances, but it's truthfully just a handful of tense minutes.

Din eventually gives up, concluding it the best course of action for his currently wavering mental health.

He finally jots something down, his thoughts along the line of using whatever money he needs for fuel, then planning out what to do with the rest.

He can do math on the fly, what’s to say he can’t budget on the fly as well?

It’s not really ‘budgeting’- more of a half-assed spending plan for future pay.

Luckily, though, he should be able to control his spending more than he had last time. The kid certainly has everything he’s ever needed, and Din reminds himself that he hasn’t gone ‘broke’ until the kid forced himself in Din’s life.

Din, as far as things he’s ‘learned’ today, figures that perhaps budgeting just isn’t something he’ll learn to do properly. Not everything is for everyone, and he learns that budgeting simply _isn’t_ something he can do.

(The next time they go shopping, their latest pay in hand, Din somehow manages to spend _less_ than they usually do, all while still buying the kid some drawing supplies and fuel for the Razor Crest. He assumes it’s just some strange stroke of luck, and not the sloppy budget that sits in his pocket the entire time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really struggled with this one. As a person who is surprisingly good with money, this tore me up to write. My version of budgeting is just not spending money unless absolutely necessary and I manage to survive (somehow).  
> haha sorry if Din is replaced with ’Dib’ at any moment, I stupidly decided to write a Mandalorian and Invader Zim fanfic at the same time and my phone decides to autocorrect both names  
> ___  
> edit: so this next chapter is gonna be a real fuckin’ zinger. I accidentally made it sadder than necessary, but it fits I think? Just as a fair warning if you’re not really into angsty internal monologues.


	5. To Live, Learn, and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter doesn’t have any dialogue or character interactions and is very internal.
> 
> Buckle up scouts because this is a long one.  
> also it’s unnecessarily dramatic haha sorry I think I projected my grief of nearly failing a test onto Din

**5.**

In the vast expanse of space, seemingly reaching until the end of the universe, there floats a spaceship, past the rubble of demolished ships and planets like.

The ship, the _Razor Crest_ , aimlessly floats in space, conserving fuel and allowing the inhabitants to rest up before a stretch of space-travel.

Aboard the ship there are two people; a child, small and green, adearing and adorable, and a parent, dangerous yet loving despite all odds.

The parent, Din Djarin, is currently having a crisis.

He sits alone in the cockpit. The vast expanse of space stretches out before him, twinkling stars and far off galaxies almost belittling him from behind something as thin as a window.

He stares off into the thick of the void, his disturbed gaze hidden by the ‘T’ of his visor. He sucks in a breath, unaware that he’d been holding it.

The kid’s asleep, lightly trilling and kicking atop the bed in their quarters, and Din’s finally allowed some peace of mind. Truth be told, he’d prefer that he didn’t.

The kid, Din realizes.

Din- well, Din loves the kid. There’s no ignoring it at this point. 

The times of beating around the bush and purposefully ignoring his personal investment in the kid is long since passed, for it’s _now_ , standing alone in the cockpit of the Razor Crest, that Din decides to have an existential crisis of sorts.

(Of course, the crisis is not by his choice, but something that’s been long-coming.)

Throughout his life, Din’s been afraid, verging on _avoidant,_ of love. Losing your family, whom you love dearly and loves you just as so, at a young age tends to do that to a person. 

He’s always had difficulty trusting and allowing himself to get attached- between living a precarious life or one filled with paranoia, Din teeters on the precipice of precariousness, always one nudge from plummeting into paranoia. 

He knows his thoughts and his thoughts alone, and has never been allowed even the most momentary glimpse into the mindset of another. Love is something easily faked, after all.

For all he knows, the kid _could_ be faking it, and that’s Din’s overarching problem.

The kid may not even see Din as a father, he may just see him as a temporary guardian to act as a stand-in while they search for his _real_ parents.

( _It’s selfish and evil,_ Din thinks, _to want someone you don’t even_ **_know_ ** _dead for no particular reason_ . There is a reason, though, he reminds himself. Some hopeful part of Din wishes that the kid’s _real_ parents aren’t alive, and it disgusts him that he’s even capable of such thoughts.)

Even with the biological parents out of the way, there’s still so _much_ , _way too much_ , that could factor into the kid not loving Din.

The kid’s _older_ than him, and that’s a terrifying thing to think, a crisis of its own that he’d rather file away for a later date. He can’t be sure of the kid’s internal machinations, his thoughts and feelings. For all Din knows, the kid’s using him.

-And Din wouldn’t care.

That’s the strange thing about love, Din admits. You can love someone so thoroughly, so _unrepentantly,_ to the point that you don’t care if they reciprocate. You don’t see their flaws, their own feelings towards you, disillusioned and unswayed.

It’s unhealthy, he believes, the attachment he has to the kid. It passes through love, spearing sentimentality right through, and lands on the cusp of unhealthy interest and possessiveness.

His unfettered love for the kid hurts Din and distorts his view, morals being thrown right out the window when the kid’s concerned. 

...Din feels as if he doesn’t quite get the meaning of love.

His point is, even after such a short time, he would give the kid the universe and then some in order to keep him safe, happy, and _home_.

Din then tiredly realizes that home _is_ where the heart is, and he’s never been this content upon the Razor Crest a day in his life. The kid’s the closest thing to a home he’s had in a long while.

Din, although he’s ashamed to admit it, has already _talked about his emotions_.

(Strangely enough, he was the one who initiated the conversation and the one who went as far as to _actively seek_ Cara out in order to do so.)

To this day, he’s a bit humiliated by the fact that he spoke to an ex shock-trooper about his emotional grievances, but there wasn’t much of a choice.

(It was either Greef or Cara, and— yeah.)

As Din stands from his chair his eyes trail on the stars for a moment longer as he lingers in the cockpit. With a decisive nod and a slew of unwelcome thoughts, he walks to his and the kid’s shared quarters.

Love is something alien to Din, much more alien than the child that’s wormed his way into Din’s heart. His love stands completely platonic and unwavering for the kid, willing to kill (and _having killed)_ for the kid.

 _Oh,_ Din realizes. He’s pretty sure the term is ‘paternal affection’ given that he’s now a _father._

He lets out a pathetic, rueful chuckle.

Is he doing it right? He thinks as he turns a corner. He hasn’t had a family, a genuine _family_ , in such a long time. He can’t help but feel as if he’s missing something or messing something up. Besides the kid, the covenant has been the closest thing to a ‘family’ he’s had in years, and even then they’re not even quite that.

(Although, they had stuck with him through thick and thin, a strange almost-family of sorts, through religion and shared hardships rather than through shared blood and love.)

How _does_ one love, and how’s he supposed to know if he’s going through the correct motions? In fact, he’s convinced that he’s barely flubbing it through parenthood, and he really doesn’t have a reference for either love _or_ raising a child.

He stills before their quarters, the door wide open and the child deep in the throes of sleep. He snoozes atop a pile of blankets that range from heavy furs and threadbare sheets, sloppily wrapped in a quilt of his own.

Staring upon the slumbering child, convincing himself he’s being a few seconds short of creepy, he almost smiles.

For perhaps the fiftieth time that day, Din realizes something.

He can work through love the way he’s worked through everything else- he’ll make it up as he goes, learning to adapt to it and overcome any shortcomings. Love is, like everything else in Din’s life as of late, unexpected and unknown.

Who better to overcome such an admirable and unknown feat but a Mandalorian? Always there to start a fight and rightfully end it.

(He can only pray to whatever deity that he can manage through raising and loving a child.)

With the kid peacefully snoozing on, Din leaves, remembering that he’s got more important things to do than self reflect.

There’s not much Din wouldn’t do for his kid.

(In fact, there’s _nothing_ Din wouldn’t do for his kid.)

He’ll live for the sake of his kid, learn for his kid, and love for his kid. It’s as if a part of him that he didn’t know was missing came back, a lost direction that’s pointed him the right way.

No matter what, Din Djarin perseveres and _lives_.

Only now it’s for someone other than himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN  
> (jk jk if there’s any spelling errors I’ll fix them later but from what I checked for should be okay? I just wanted to get this out without any delay and I’ll edit it if I find anything)  
> hell yeah that wasn’t as sad as I thought it was going to be  
> no big time angst in my domestic fic, just lil tears but no big sobs ( I hope)  
> anyways it’s the kiddo’s turn next chapter YAY


	6. Aliit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An affirmation through phrase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s suuuuuper fucking late but IT’S HERE HELL YEAH but also probably a bit lack luster not hell yeah :^(

Din slinks last the crowd of people and into the cantina with his kid safely swaddled against his chest.

The low, reverberating tones of music and the distinct scent of food permeates the air. His kid perks up, brown eyes blown wide as he excitedly takes in the (albeit familiar) environment.

Din walks to Cara and Greef’s table, pace kept even and strides intimidating in an attempt to dissuade any potential hostiles. One arm stays wrapped around his kid protectively, the other hand subtly hovering above his blaster in a barely discernible uncertainty.

Din is to have a debriefing over his current bounty with Greef- from vague instructions to the even more vague information.

Din stops before the table, then settles into the seat furthest from Greef.

Cara, looking bored to her wits end as she reconstructs her blaster for what Din counts to be the third time since he and the kid entered, sighs. She only subtly perks up at the sight of the kid and him, her gratefulness for the between-bounties distraction shown in the small curve of her lips and the slight tilt of her head.

Dark, inquisitive eyes take in the approaching form of Din and his kid, easily coming to the conclusion that Din’s there for a bounty (because when is he  _ not?  _ He’s never willingly visited Cara and Greef casually or during whatever little free time he has).

“Hey.” Cara says, both in greeting and as a call for Din’s attention. She vaguely gestures towards Din’s arms, a barely-there smirk on her face.

“I’ll take the kids off your hands.”

Din spends a few seconds too long debating whether or whether not to hand off his kid to (debatably) one of his only friends(?). In fact, he spends too long, considering that Cara begins to laugh at his viable concern.   
  
As soon as her laughter comes it leaves, expression reverting to a smile with a peevish edge, almost tentative.

(Emphasis on the ‘almost’, because nothing about Cara Dune can ever be described as ‘tentative’, lest you want her to ‘tentatively’ blast your head off.)

“Wait,” she edges. “You’ve  _ never  _ had a sitter before?” 

He makes a disgruntled face beneath his helmet, and angles his head in the other direction if only minutely. Din doesn’t say anything, but apparently his silence speaks for itself.

Cara, somehow attuned to Din’s mood through either the ability to decipher his body language or x-ray vision (Din wouldn’t be surprised), guffaws concernedly, somehow.

“ _Really?”_ She scolds, and although the questioning inflection is there it most _definitely_ is _not_ a question. Her facial expressions betray her, and she looks to be on the edge of laughing at him in his face, _shooting him_ _in his face_ , or just heavily sighing. 

Though it may be peculiar, Greef and Cara look at Din with what hems concern. He doesn’t grace them with an answer, for there’s nothing he can say. Accepting his silence as a loud enough answer, and with a pointed look towards Din, Cara (gently!) steals the kid from him.

Din, in mindless retaliation, flails to grab his blaster and Cara at the same time. 

It takes him a moment to stop awkwardly fumbling for his gun and his kid at the same time, and once he’s finally processed the situation, he freezes. Arms outstretched and left leg twisted beneath him uncomfortably with his body angled towards Cara, he loosens up and reluctantly collapses back against his chair.

Cara, seemingly satisfied with this resolution, nods towards Din, her face a mask of total seriousness. With a final look, she turns and takes off with his kid with haste. Din watches them cross the cantina, abjectly waiting for them to sit down.

A short moment after the realization that he is unwillingly having his kid babysat, Din turns towards Greef in order to begin the debriefing.

He shifts in his seat in order to be able to keep an eye on his kid and his abductor, glancing past Greef’s shoulder every once and awhile to ascertain what they’re doing.

A short distance away (but too far to Din), Cara sits with the kid at a booth, the two of them seated on opposite sides. She talks to the kid, as if expecting a response from him. Din’s audio-receptors can’t pick up on the subdued alto of her voice, all speech easily drowned out by the low tones of music and the noise of amicable chatter.

“... You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.” Greef says, less of an accusation and more of an amused acceptance of the truth. 

Din, usually with his head screwed on straight and always at attention, is almost bemused to find out that he’d completely forgotten the debriefing was a  _ thing _ .

(He figures it best to start actually listening, for he’s not going to be able to make money staring at his kid.)

Din manages to make it through the debriefing, seconds dragging minutes dragging into  _ hours. _

(In actuality, the debriefing is only nearly an hour long. Din’s noticed that he tends to get impatient nowadays when the kid isn’t  _ supposed  _ to be a concern.)

Debriefing over and head swimming with vague, contradicting information, Greef gives Din a once-over. He shakes his head and lowly chuckles, then waves Din off as if he’s some child.

Din wants to point out that all of his friendships are founded in those he works with or around, so there’s a noticeable and significant drop in how his friends treat him professionally.

Deciding to leave it be, he instead caters to more important thoughts.

(The kid, namely.)

Din stands to go retrieve his kid. Apparently, Cara’s a few steps ahead of him, standing an arm’s width away from Din as he stands, the kid in front of him as he turns.

He looks down at the kid, who seems to be rather aggressively blowing raspberries. Din is afraid that he doesn’t understand the kid’s intentions, because he’s pretty sure he’d gotten his mannerisms plotted out at this point.

Din takes a cautious look at the kid, because his passively-annoyed expression is not a look alien to Din, but rather always indecipherable by origin and all around confusing.

The kid’s brow is furrowed, his tiny teeth biting at his lower lip. His ears are pressed firm against the flat of his head in concentration, and he digs his claws into the sleeves of his robes.

He burbles something incomprehensible, which is soon followed by a high, gurgled chortle. Dark eyes glance towards Cara, who only gives the slight inclination of her head in return to the child’s obvious struggling.

With a determined nod, the kid stares up at Din- it would be an intimidating look if it wasn't on some twerp not even a quarter of his size.

The kid blinks, and Din stares on.

”Da.” He abruptly chirps, the hint of a dramatic build-up crushed and gone. Din’s heart seizes in his chest and he has no idea  _ why _ .

Cara smugly grins from off to the side, and even Greef, still seated at their table, bares the faintest of smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

It's barely a syllable- it's not even a full  _ word _ \- but knowing that the kid has spent the last  _ hour  _ devotedly learning how to  _ talk  _ blooms a paternal pride within Din.

Fostering a child was a completely unexpected and originally unwanted left-hook to Din, but as he spares a brief thought to reflect on  _ where  _ they started and where they are now, he can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips.

He’s never expected himself to live a long life, much less have a  _ kid. _

He can’t say he doesn’t want the kid, though, as unexpected as he was.

Even with the complications and learning curves that come with the acquisition of a child, Din can honestly say he wouldn't trade it for the world.

The kid laughs at himself, bright and excited at managing to have formed a semi-coherent syllable. He trills and bobbles around for a bit before he demands to be picked up by Din.

His exhaustion apparent, the kid conks out within seconds, snoring away against Din’s beskar chestplate.

(A few hours later, aboard the Razor Crest, Din soon finds out that not only did Cara teach the kid how to say ‘Da’, she also apparently taught him how to say ‘ _ No’ _ . Somehow, his lingering pride couples with his ire as the kid verbally rejects sleep. Din manages a weary smile, but it’s soon followed by a long-suffering sigh, and even then, as he’s faced with unintelligible rebuttals interspersed with a ‘Da’ and ‘No’, he’s completely sure he wouldn’t give the kid up for  _ anything.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this came out really late! my last few weeks have been absolutely hectic and writer’s block hit me like a drunk semi-driver in the winter  
> this is officially my first multi-chapter fanfic in 7 years (yeah it’s fucking wild) and my very first 5 + 1 so we are poppin, lockin, as well as poppin and re-poppin cherries.  
> have a good... Monday?
> 
> edit: since past me is a dumbass, I would like to sincerely thank everyone who stuck around for this piece of shit. I haven't posted anything I've written in years and am genuinely shocked by the amount of positive reactions this has gotten. I give all my kudos to you wonderful people, and hope you have a good week.

**Author's Note:**

> gagaga this is my first 5+1 so whoops there goes my fanfic virginity   
> uh,,, as a person who can’t cook for shit and can only bake some bomb-ass bread (not like, fancy pastries or anything, fucking BREAD) I sympathize (and might’ve reflected) with Din.  
> yeah ngl I make a mean zucchini bread  
> anyways yeah. P sure the next one will be something along the lines of ‘bath time’ if you wanted to know.


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